yah, you heard me.

in other news





I am not writing, but I am formulating, and thinking, and dreaming, and walking around in that semi-awake state I am so fond of, where everything is real but removed and only important in the details that pertain to my next story idea.



but when the police come knocking on the door twice in less than a month looking for the weed we aren't growing or selling, the creative state sort of gets shattered and that's where I am sitting, on top of a pile of ideas and half formed characters and bare glimpses of "what it could be if I actually wrote it", shaking from the visit from the narcs and sort of sick to my stomach thanks to my period.

oh. and. . . panic is a mild word for the utter terror that takes me over any time and I stop and think about it.